


I Walk the Line

by Error401



Series: In and Out [5]
Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Diners, Gen, Language, M/M, Racist Language, Waiter!Glenn, no zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-21
Updated: 2013-02-21
Packaged: 2017-11-30 00:41:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/693389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Error401/pseuds/Error401
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’ll take the breakfast special,” the owner of the knife said behind him, and Glenn spun quickly. “Real bacon. None ‘a that turkey shit.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Walk the Line

**Author's Note:**

> First, I love you guys  
> Second, I like how this turned out.

Most of the people Glenn knew were nice, were respectful, honestly didn’t even see the color of his skin and the cant of his eyes when they spoke to him or waved hello on their way to work. But there were always those few, no matter where he lived, who hated anything different, no matter what form it came in. Mark Rothke in his high school in Michigan, the owner of the deli around the corner, the guy who ordered a large pepperoni every Friday night and thought it was funny to speak to him in gibberish and stretch his eyes with his fingers. 

The two men sitting at one of his tables seemed to be of that persuasion, and all Glenn could do was smile and nod and pretend that their derogatory comments didn’t sting. He bit his tongue and shoved the urge to tell them he was Korean down his throat, even though it would have pleased him to no end to dump the pot of coffee he was filling their mugs with over their heads. He’d been raised to keep quiet, to say nothing unless it was necessary, and it looked like residual effects of his childhood were still able to silence him.

“I love Chinese food,” one of them said, clearly a little less than sober. This was why Glenn hated graveyard shifts. He got all the drunks and none of the tips, unless someone was so smashed they accidentally mistook a one for a twenty. 

“There’s a great restaurant down the street,” Glenn said through clenched teeth, pointing to the door in a less than polite way. “This is a diner.”

“Well why the hell they got a Chinese kid workin’ here, then? What, there was no work in the firecracker factory?”

“Do you know what you want to order, or do you need more time?” Glenn sighed, switching back to his script. It was always better to stick to the script. 

“Gimme’ a minute, damn it!” The other said, squinting over the tiny print on the laminated menu. “Why are there so many options?”

“I’ll be back,” Glenn said. He needed to put down the coffee pot before he did something he’d regret. He made his way behind the counter, resting his elbows against its laminate top and scrubbing both hands over his face, ignoring the twinge from the bruise that covered the entire left side of his face. 

He looked behind him into the kitchen to see the short order cook, Randall, with his music player in hand and both ear buds in his ears and lighting up a joint, singing along to some heavy metal song that Glenn neither knew nor wanted to know. He couldn’t really blame the guy, but he was short on company and needed someone to complain to. He sighed, pulling off his cap and setting it next to him. He ran a hand through his hair, grimacing. He should really wash it more often.

“Hey! Chinese kid!” One of them slurred.

Glenn rolled his eyes and sighed. Back to work.

He held his order pad and pen in front of him for show, had long mastered the art of remembering orders by ear rather than wasting his time trying to write them down. 

“We want fried rice,” the more belligerent of the two laughed, slapping the shoulder of his buddy.

“This is a diner,” Glenn said again. “Name a breakfast food. Any breakfast food!” he snapped, feeling a few pages crumple in his grip.

Before he registered what had happened, there was suddenly a very large, very sharp knife protruding from the table in front of him, buried an inch into the plastic. The two men who had been laughing at his frustration cut off and turned three shades paler, fear widening their dilated eyes. Glenn was afraid to turn around, but he knew that pretending there wasn’t a knife in the table didn’t make the knife in the table go away.

“I’ll take the breakfast special,” the owner of the knife said behind him, and Glenn spun quickly. “Real bacon. None ‘a that turkey shit.”

“Daryl, what the fuck?” Glenn yelled, not even feeling guilty about letting that f-bomb slip. 

“Get,” Daryl said, directing his eyes to the two sitting at the table and jerking his head to the door.

“Now, hold on just a minute,” the loud one said again, sweat beading on his upper lip. 

Daryl reached over Glenn’s shoulder and worked the blade from the table, returning it to a sheath hidden under his vest at his hip. He raised an eyebrow and scowled. 

“Seriously, you guys should just go,” Glenn said hurriedly. 

“You…gonna’ be okay, Chinese kid?” the second man asked uncertainly, and Glenn felt a strange warmth build in his chest at the man’s concern. Maybe he was a jerk, but he was still human, and he cared whether or not something happened to the kid in the diner that he’d just spent the better part of an hour making fun of. 

“Yeah,” Glenn nodded. “It’s fine, I promise.”

“Go!” Daryl growled this time, kicking at an empty chair and causing the noise to reverberate around the empty restaurant. 

The two didn’t need any more prompting. They went, the door falling shut with a thunk as they stumbled out onto the sidewalk, the streetlamp winking outside and illuminating their hasty retreat. 

“Daryl, what the fuck?” Glenn repeated, and he did feel a little guilty about that one. “What are you doing here?”

“I was hungry,” Daryl shrugged, sitting down in one of the now-vacant chairs and taking a sip of the coffee Glenn had poured, making a disgusted face. “What the hell is this shit?”

“You were hungry,” Glenn repeated. He looked down at his watch. “At two thirteen in the morning?”

“Got back from a hunt,” Daryl said, taking another sip. “Man’s gotta’ eat.” Glenn did think he looked a little grimier than usual, dirt caked in patches on the knees of his jeans and bits of foliage stuck to the sides of his boots. 

“How did you know I worked here?” Glenn asked, more than a little disturbed. 

“I track things for a living,” Daryl said. “I followed your trail from your apartment.” He picked at the dirt underneath his fingernails nonchalantly. 

“Are you serious?” Glenn asked, voice full of a mix of awe and disbelief. 

“Nah,” Daryl grinned. “I saw your apron when I was in there last time.”

“Oh,” Glenn said, oddly disappointed. “That makes more sense.” He pulled up the other chair and sat down. Not like he had anything else to do. “So…you came to see me?”

“I was hungry,” Daryl repeated stonily. “Say somethin’ faggy like that again and I will shoot you. My crossbow’s in the truck.”

“Geeze, sorry!” Glenn held out his hands. “I just thought…was there something you wanted?”

“Food!” Daryl grunted. 

Glenn rolled his eyes and stood, made his way to the back, and had to shout three times before Randall even noticed he was standing there. “Breakfast special, extra turkey bacon.”

“Fucking customers,” Randall mumbled over the joint.

“Tell me about it,” Glenn agreed, going to sit back down. He grabbed the coffee pot on his way and topped Daryl’s mug off with the brew, now long gone cold.

“You’re a shitty waiter,” Daryl grumbled, taking another painful sip.

“You’re just shitty in general,” Glenn gestured to Daryl’s body. “Don’t you ever shower? I mean come on, man. This is a little ridiculous.”

“I work for a livin’,” Daryl protested, and Glenn couldn’t help the way his eyes were drawn to the flex of Daryl’s biceps as he crossed his arms over his chest. 

They sat in tense silence for a minute, and Glenn wasn’t sure what to say. It’s not like they were friends. If Daryl hadn’t helped him, they probably would never have talked to each other to begin with. 

“So why did you help me that night?” Glenn asked, realizing for the first time just how much he wanted to know the answer to that question.

Daryl shrugged, fidgeted. 

“I’m Korean, you know,” Glenn said. “I’m not Chinese.”

“It’s all the same,” Daryl shrugged. “Chink’s a chink.”

Glenn frowned. Said nothing.

Daryl shifted uncomfortably. Uncrossed his arms, clasped his hands together. Fiddled with his thumbs. “My brother would have some things to say about me talkin’ to you,” Daryl said. 

“Oh yeah?” Glenn asked. 

“He ain’t never liked…”

“Non-white people?” Glenn suggested helpfully.

“You reminded me of someone that I knew,” Daryl said, a faraway look in his eyes. “Her husband used to beat that woman seven ways to Sunday, and she never said nothin’ to nobody. I could tell, though. We all could. We just ain’t never done nothin’ about it.” He frowned and rubbed subconsciously at his chest, over his heart. “Merle told me to stay out of it, and I listened. She died.”

“I’m sorry,” Glenn said.

“Yeah,” Daryl said. “Me too.”

“I’ll go check on your food,” Glenn said quietly, getting up from the table, nearly scaring Randall half to death when he tapped him on the shoulder in the kitchen. “Make it real bacon,” he said.


End file.
